


Post-Shower Thoughts

by great_turkey_calamity



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alex is getting ready for bed and running through his memories, Angst, Body Positivity, Eating Disorder Recovery, Gen, Happy Ending, He and Henry are married, M/M, Not Beta Read, Please take care of yourselves, TW: Bulimia, TW: Eating Disorder, TW: Emetophobia, TW: panic attack in public, learning to love your body again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27773569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_turkey_calamity/pseuds/great_turkey_calamity
Summary: As Alex gets ready for bed, he reflects on times in his life where did not treat his body with the kindness or love that it deserved from him.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	Post-Shower Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> ⚠️PLEASE READ THE TWS THIS FIC IS NOT FOR EVERYONE AND HAS A MATURE RATING FOR A REASON⚠️ 
> 
> Requested by @IveDoneMyWaiting, this is a sort of character study of Alex Claremont-Diaz. It’s always been obvious to me that he has a very difficult time with coping with the world around him, and I would say that him developing an eating disorder isn’t outside of the realm of possibilities for him. I’ve written him with Bulimia before, but this is a fic where that will really be the center focus. I have tried my absolute best to write this in a respectful, accurate fashion whilst keeping in mind that everyone who suffers from an eating disorder has a different experience.
> 
> Once again, if you have struggled with your body image or an eating disorder, and you view those topics as sensitive or triggering subject matter, I implore you to leave. My neurodivergent Henry series is much more fluffy and uplifting, and it is very much recommended if you need something soft to read after this as well.
> 
> Will be leaving resources in my ending notes.
> 
> Please take care of yourselves, and happy reading.

Still damp from his scalding hot, skin-numbing shower, clad in his boxers, Alexander is staring at himself in the mirror. He’s not looking at his face, or his hair, but his body as a whole. He notices the little things about himself; the plushness of his stomach, the subtle protrusion of his collarbones, the straight drop of his waist, and the tender softness of the muscles in his arms and legs.   
  


He loves his body. It’s strong and responsive and completely incredible; he feels such a powerful connection with it. He knows its limit— how far he can pull it apart and how far that he can stretch it thin. He knows just how much he can push, and push, and push some more. It’s healthy, and it’s safe. It has carried him through some of the hardest, most complex moments in his life, and he knows that it will continue to do so in the years to come. Covered in stretch marks, freckles, and even a few bruises from bumping his hips on counters and tripping over his shoes and chair legs, his body is uniquely his own. And he loves it.

He squirts a dollop of leave-in conditioner into his hand, raking it through his curls before scrunching them, and as he picks up the brush, he finds himself recalling moments where he most certainly did not love it. Not how it was deserving of being loved. 

He’s eighteen when his mother wins the Democratic Party presidential primary election. It’s a big moment, not just for Ellen, but for everyone in the family. Everyone is being genuinely exposed to the press for the first time. His mom, Leo, June, himself, and even his dad, to an extent. People are scouring the internet, trying to learn every last little thing about them. Newspapers and gossip magazines and pop culture websites are all vying for their attention, regularly ringing their press staff to see if they can get interviews.   
  


There’s been a small issue around unwanted photographers. Nobody is being harassed, but every once and a while, Alex notices that there are people holding cameras across the street or down the way from him. He always shrugs it off, diverts his attention and pushes onward, taking on the world in his own little way one step at a time. 

He’s in his room, looking into his course catalog for his bachelor’s program at Georgetown, when June comes stomping into his bedroom with her arms full of tabloids and low-rate news magazines. She’s decided to stay home while Ellen’s going through her election cycle, and she’s been doing a good job at keeping herself— and Alex— entertained. She’s also brought a bag of chips for the two of them to share; a routine attempt at bonding that’s known to go rather well. 

Alex is scoffing over an article over the youngest— and most pompous— Prince of Wales in the _Daily Mail_ , when he hears June make a shocked noise through a mouthful of potato, vinegar, and salt. 

“My god,” She mumbles, swallowing. “That’s actually so fucking rude. Absolutely outrageous.” She breathes, eyes scanning over the page of her own magazine several times over.

Alex’s brows furrow. “What?”  
  


June suddenly goes rigid, flipping the page. “It’s nothing, dude. Don’t worry about it.”

That makes his stomach go all knotted. “Tell me, Bug.”

She sighs. “You have to promise me that you won’t take it to heart.”

He’s confused. “Okay,” He replies. “Don’t know what I’m getting myself into by promising that, but okay.”

She goes pale when she flips the page back, folding the tabloid over and placing it in his lap at the article’s beginning.

He feels his mouth go dry as he skims the article, seeing the words ‘ _chubby_ ’ and ‘ _fat_ ’ being attached to his name in vitriolic fashion. He looks at the photo; he’s not wearing anything special, a polo top and some jeans, making his way down a busy sidewalk. The picture doesn’t look that bad to him— if they think he looks bad here, he can only wonder how people see him on a daily basis, how his family sees him on his bad days.

He can’t think about it anymore, can’t look at this god-awful image or article any longer. Silently, he shuts the magazine, placing it on the top of the pile in the center of his bed. He feels June place her hand on his shoulder, but doesn’t look up. He feels gross. He feels really, really bad, and he doesn’t really know why. 

“Alex, look at me,” June instructs, and his heart feels like it’s being squeezed and twisted in every possible direction. “Please?”

He does as she asks, raising his gaze to meet hers, looking June in the eyes. 

“It’s just a tabloid, okay?” She tells Alex, rubbing his shoulder. “Their one job is to make people look bad. That was just one photo taken at a bad angle at the wrong time. You are capable, and you are handsome, and you don’t need to get all hung up on this.”

“Okay,” he tries to reassure himself. “Yeah, alright.”  
  


June doesn’t seem convinced. “Do you need to be alone for a little while?”

“Yes please,” He whispers, not even giving it a second thought.

“We can eat dinner together tonight, okay?” She proposes, something deeply and obviously concerned in her eyes. “We’ll make it chill, watch _Parks and Rec,_ maybe take some Buzzfeed quizzes. That sound fun?”

“I think I need to be alone for the rest of the night, Bug.” He croaks.

She falls quiet for a moment or two. “Alright, bubba.” She wraps him up in a tight, fierce hug, and places a peck on his cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight.”

She gathers up the tabloids in her arms, and leaves his bedroom.

No matter how much he tries, he cannot bring himself to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. 

Alex sets his brush down on the countertop, after combing through his hair with it, and pats his hands dry on a nearby hand towel. He extracts his toothbrush from its holder next, coating the bristles in toothpaste. Another memory springs to the forefront of his mind as he begins brushing. 

Ellen has been in office for a year, now, and has finally given clearance for the first ever Legendary Balls-Out Bananas White House Trio New Year’s Eve Party— also known as the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala by the press team, and the Millennial Correspondents’ Dinner by a few late night talk show hosts that desperately need to revamp their senses of humor.  
  


Nora and June have both been fretting over various things; the guest list, the food, confetti types, theme colors, what charity they’ll be donating to, the works.   
  


“Alejandro!” Nora calls from across the East Room, making Alex’s attention divert from one of the event planners he was speaking to.

“Yeah?” He shouts back, making his way over to his friend when she beckons him over.

“I’m in need of your assistance.”

“Watcha got?” He asks, and his heart drops when he sees the cake samples laid out on the table. He can’t bring himself to do this.

“I can’t try all of these by myself,” She tells him, sliding half of the cake samples in his direction. “Help me out?”

“I dunno,” He replies, pins and needles in his skin and on his tongue as a burning sensation begins to creep through him. He’s been doing double-time at the gym and skipping breakfast to trim down for this party; he can’t afford bad photos, his sex symbol status would slip right through his fingers. He would be reduced to a laughing stock— that’s how he sees it, at least. “Don’t wanna have to re-size my suit.” He jokes, chuckling.

She scoffs, swatting him in the chest. “A few bites never hurt anyone,” She tells him, quickly softening. “Unless you really don’t want to, which I would totally understand.” She assures him.

He feels weird now, like she’s observing him under some sort of lens— like he’s being silently criticized. He feels like he’s obligated to do this, to push his feelings down for the sake of keeping things comfortable, of keeping things normal.  
  


Alex shakes his head. “It’s fine,” He tells Nora, smiling. “You’re right. A few bites won’t hurt.”

“Atta boy,” She praises, taking a bite from her first cake sample. 

Immediately after, he excuses himself, making up some bland excuse about taking an urgent phone call, and heads up to his bedroom.

That night is the first time he forces himself to get sick.

It most certainly isn’t the last.

He spits out his toothpaste, rinsing his mouth out with mouthwash, then water. It’s been a few days since he’s last shaved, so he lathers his face with white foam, and finds his shaving razor, turning the taps on to rinse the shaving foam from his razor every few swipes. An especially horrible instance from a few years ago sticks out in his mind. 

It’s the end of his junior year at Georgetown, and he’s been running laps around the Capitol Reflecting Pool in his sweats for at least twenty minutes at this point. Cash is standing just a few feet out from him, just for security’s sake. 

He’s losing his fucking grip on everything, and it’s all because of his _stupid_ Economic Statistics class. Economics has never been his strong suit— he didn’t pay attention to the class in high school, and only skirted by with a 92. He’s done alright with the course at Georgetown, getting by as well as he can.   
  


Until he found out he made an eighty-five on the final exam. He realizes that to most students, an eighty-five on an Economic Statistics final would be something to celebrate about. But Alex is not most students; he is the president’s son. He was the valedictorian of his graduating class back in high school. He’s on track to graduate summa cum laude. He’s made a _B_ maybe two or three other times in his entire academic career— _never_ on a final exam.

He’s an absolute wreck, hiding in the White House kitchen and eating his feelings by way of ice cream and three-day old leftovers. He can’t keep any of it down. He’s been eating an absurd amount of breath mints and brushing his teeth until his mouth is aching to mask the vile scent of vomit. Now, he’s running, running like his entire goddamned life depends on it.

God, he feels like such a failure. No matter how hard he tries, it never feels like it’s enough. _He_ never feels like _he_ is enough. Constantly causing trouble for his mom and Zahra, getting in arguments with Republican senators and congressmen on social media, annoying June and Nora and Raf Luna until they get fed up with him. He’s hindering rather than helping. He’s begun to see himself as a burden over anything else. 

  
As he picks up speed, Alex remembers so vividly when he used to be perfect. When he used to be a sweet-faced and innocent child, making PowerPoints about whether or not Santa Claus was really a good guy, of making long lists of all his hopes and dreams. He’s going faster, now. He remembers his teenage years. Faster. Popular and smart, in student government and at every lacrosse practice, taking up AP courses and Model UN. Faster. Teachers and his parents sung praise about him, spinning stories about what a magnificent life he was going to have, all the wonderful places he was going to go. If they knew what he did in his loneliest, worst hours, he knows that they would all be ashamed in him, disgusted to know him.

Faster, faster, _faster_. 

He’s sprinting, away from his demons and towards that perfect, idealized version of himself. He’s sprinting towards the times when he wasn’t afraid to leave his home, when he looked at world with bright eyes and not an ounce of fear in his body. He remembers when he used to wear summer clothes, when he used to be confident in his body— in himself. He remembers when he used to be perfect.

He remembers when he used to be happy. 

His legs fall out from beneath him, and he crumples to the ground, dizzy and breathless. At that exact moment— that moment of panic and weakness and sheer desperation— Alexander begins to sob, heavy and loud, too tired to care who sees or hears him.

He hears footsteps, feels hands on his shoulders. Cash; Cash is here, and he’s gonna keep Alex safe.

“Alex,” Cash starts, sounding panicked. “Alexander, look at me.”

He blinks up at Cash, still gasping, blinking through his tears to look at him with bleary eyes. He’s sniffing and groaning, gripping onto his arms.

“What’s wrong?” Cash asks him, tone hushed and soothing, like he’s talking to a small and scared child. “Talk to me, tell me what’s hurting.”

“I need to go home,” He gasps, sore and shaking. “I need Mom.”

Cash has to carry him to the car and walk him into the Residence, immediately taking Alexander to Ellen, who is clearly very concerned.

Alex finds himself spilling every coherent— and incoherent— thought to his mother, trying to describe his physical and mental state to her as best as he can without dissolving into a puddle of tears. By the end of it, he and his mother are both crying, she’s rocking him back and forth, swearing on her life that she’s going to do everything in her power to get him help. 

And she does. She gets in touch with every therapist she can, and finds the one that works for him. She reads up on his condition, always approaching him gently. She holds him while he screams and cries and begs her to let him end recovery, because actively seeing himself moving back up towards a healthy weight is agonizing. She loves Alex so fiercely that nothing can deter her, especially not this condition; he thinks that Ellen is quite possibly the strongest person that he will ever know in his entire life.

She is his mother, and she’s helping him through recovery. One breath at a time.

Alex rinses his razor a final time, then puts the safety guard on, patting his face dry. He takes a few steps back, gazing at himself, at every soft curve and sharp edge. Every last beautiful flaw. A much more positive memory pops into the forefront of his mind, now.

He lays with Henry in a double bed in a lovely hotel a year later. They’re in Wellington, New Zealand for an international human rights summit. They’re still not out to the public, but that’s okay; they’ll have plenty of time to do that after the election. 

It’s still early in the morning— the sun hasn’t come up yet, but they’re both awake nonetheless. They’d had quite the romp earlier in the night, and now they’re just enjoying their privacy, the mutual, adoring quiet between the two of them. Henry’s got himself propped up on one arm, sprawled across Alex’s chest, fingertips trailing along the outline of his face.

“You’re beautiful,” Henry murmurs, touching two fingers to his bottom lip.

Alex is taken aback by this, kissing Henry’s fingers. “No,” He says, on impulse. He’s been clean for the better part of a year, but he still struggles with compliments and the like at times. “I’m not beautiful; you are, though. Radiant.”

Henry scowls playfully. “You _are_ beautiful.” He says, standing his ground on this one. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”

Alex hums, heart thumping in his chest. “You say that,” He starts, pulling Henry closer, their bodies pressed flush together. “But you offer zero substantial evidence.”

Henry takes it upon himself to sit up and swing his legs over Henry’s legs, bracketing his hips with his hands resting on his torso. Slowly, they drift up to Alexander’s face, cupping it. “Where do I begin?” He says softly, and Alex just wants to listen to the sound of his voice all day long.

“I think I’ll start right here,” Henry mumbles, leaning forward and kissing both of his eyelids. “With the most gorgeous brown eyes I have ever seen. They hold so much joy and happiness; I find myself thinking about them constantly.”

Alex’s hands frame his hips, his face heating up. “Well, thank you.”

“I’m not done yet,” Henry replies, smiling down at him. “I haven’t spoken of these,” He says touching his lips. “Warm and gentle.”

Alex doesn’t have enough time to speak, because Henry is moving on, kissing his shoulders, waxing poetic about how strong and stunning they are. Henry’s lips trail over every inch of his skin, and when he kisses his stomach and tells him he’s pretty, Alexander is on the verge of tears. Nobody’s ever held his body— ever kissed it— and called every last bit of it beautiful.

When Henry decides he’s through, he settles back down into his original position, laying on Alex’s chest, propped up on one arm. Alexander has his face turned into the pillow.

“Was that evidence sufficient enough for you?” He asks, low and playful, gently grabbing Alex by the chin, their mutual eye contact tender and intimate. Alex tries to turn away, bashful, but his attempt is quelled when Henry smothers him with pecks all over his face.

“Yes,” He chuckles, muffled with the impact of Henry’s lips against his own. He pulls away after a few seconds. He’s still insecure, but to a lesser extent; he feels like all those words feel a lot less like a lie when they’re coming from Henry, like there’s a sliver of a chance that it all might be true. He decides to push past all the screaming thoughts in his head, to come clean to him. “Thank you. Really, baby. I, uhm, I’ve actually struggled with my body for a really long time. Hearing you say all that actually makes me feel a little better.”

Something flashes in Henry’s eyes— understanding? Empathy? Pride? Alex can’t quite put his finger on it; perhaps it’s an uneven mix of all three. He feels fingers playing with his curls, the warmth of someone else’s body on his in the best way possible. He knows he would never be this comfortable with anyone else; he’s only started taking his shirt off around Henry semi-recently, sees it as a victory. 

“Of course, love.” Henry replies. It appears Alex was right about a mixture of all three emotions. “I feel like there are times when everyone forgets just how beautiful they are. How they’re still wonderful and good, despite how they feel about themselves. I’ll always be sure to remind you of this— especially when you need it most.” He insists.

“I love you.” Alex breathes, and it’s true. He has been entirely consumed by how much he truly adores this man.

“I love you, too.” Henry echoes smiling. “Beautiful.”

Alex groans, and Henry laughs, shoving his face into a pillow.

A knock on the bathroom door makes him jolt. “Yeah?” He asks, moving out of the way just as the door swings open. “Hey.” He greets Henry, smiling at him.

“First, you’ve been in here for a bloody hour, and I miss the time where you were keeping the bed warm quite terribly,” Henry states, and Alex chuckles. “Second, you forgot to bring your shirt in with you.”

Alex takes the shirt him, pulling it on. It’s thin, and it clings to the dampness of his skin. “Thank you,” He replies, standing on his toes to kiss his now-husband on the lips. “Just let me put my things in the hamper, and I’ll be right there, baby.”

“Take your time,” Henry replies, giving him a gentle squeeze before leaving the restroom. 

After gathering all of his laundry up in his arms and depositing it in the hamper, Alexander steals one more glance at himself in the mirror. Soft. Strong. Constantly changing and growing. Flawed. Resilient. Patient. Hard-working. Beautiful. 

He’s struggled with it quite a bit over the years, and there are still days where it is painfully difficult to do so, but Alex Claremont-Diaz-Fox loves his body in every imaginable way.

With that final glance at himself in the fogged-up mirror, he exits the restroom, starting on his way to the bedroom in order to fulfill his nightly duties of cuddling with Henry and keeping the bed warm.

Henry wraps an arm around his waist when they’re watching _Bake Off_ together, and he is at peace with himself and the rest of the world around him.

**Author's Note:**

> NEDA Hotline: 1-800-931-2237  
> Hopeline Network: 1-800-442-4673  
> National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders: 1-630-577-1330  
> Overeaters Anonymous: 1-505-891-2664  
> Multi-Service Eating Disorders Association (formerly the Massachusetts Eating Disorder Association): 1-617-558-1881
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and once again, please take care of yourselves. ♥️


End file.
